PS 

3531 

R52S5I 







NATALIE 
WHITTED 




'**'~-SS3SS^ 



ClassP^S GS3 I 
CopyiiglitN:'_^A_<3 

COFV^RIGHT DEPOSm 



This edition of "Sketches in Lyric Prose and Verse" 

is limited to 50 de luxe numbered copies 
on Old Stratford deckle edge paper, signed by the 
author, and the regular edition. 

Printed by Ralph Fletcher Seymour 
The Alderbrink Press, Chicago, MCMXX 

Number 




SKETCHES 

IN LYRIC PROSE 

AND VERSE 



NATALIE W^HITTED PRICE 

It 








Ralph RetcKer Seymotrr 

Publisher Chicago 





:^ 







Copyright 1920 

by 

Natalie Whitted Price 



OCT 30 1S20 
5)C!.A601282 



To my comrade 



CONTENTS 

Page 

Spring 1 1 

Josephine of France 14 

Reverie 17 

Cleopatra 19 

Her Hand 22 

My Moods 24 

To a Pine Tree 27 

Song 28 

In the Park 29 

Butterflies 30 

Your Voice 32 

O'er the Way 33 

Lines Sent with a Miniature 34 

To a Little Old-Fashioned Girl 35 

Ma Belle 37 

The Treasure-Box 38 

A Southern Valentine 41 

The Little Ring 42 

Memory 42 

The Trundle-Bed 43 

You 45 

The Desk Clerk 46 

Your Day-Dreams 48 



Contents 

Page 

Cap and Bells 49 

Retribution 50 

October 51 

Daisy and Star 52 

The Patch- Work Quilt 53 

Grandma's Garden 55 

Mammy's Soldier-Gal 56 

Flower and Maid 58 

My Castle 59 

The Wooing 60 

The Pleiades 61 

Then and Now 63 

The Beetle Party 65 

The Celibate 68 

The Prod 69 

An Easter Idyl 70 

Two Mice 71 

To the Horse I Left Behind Me 72 

Compensation 73 

Fools 74 

The Hanging 75 

The Cricket 76 

If the Trees Could Talk 78 

Mammy's Lullaby 80 



SKETCHES IN LYRIC PROSE 
AND VERSE 




SKETCHES IN LYRIC PROSE AND VERSE 

SPRING 
An Allegory 

PRING, passing on her way, came 
to a hill-crest, where Ennui reclined, 
wrapped in the sleep of weariness. 
Upon the crusty leaves of winter's 
S^^gg^6\''i hoarding his frame lay motionless, in 
utter lassitude. So gentle was the tread of Spring, 
so mute her breath, that he awakened not at her ap- 
proach. Perceiving him she smiled and drew near. 
Bending above him, she lifted from her brow a fra- 
grant garland and placed it lightly on his own, and 
from her tasseled apron she drew a hundred roses, 
binding them with the tendrils of soft mosses, as a 
pillow for his head. The trailing vines about her 
feet she laced into a verdant spread with which she 
covered him, and dotted it with petaled stars of 
choicest hue; and in the heart of every flower, and 
through each palpitating leaf she breathed the fra- 
grance of her own sweet self. With sunshine smiles 
she chased the shivering gnomes of winter from the 
surrounding wood, and from the silences she beck- 
oned waiting birds and bade them sing a rhapsody. 
All this accomplished she stood apart, and with a 
silent challenge moved her awakening wand o'er 
dreaming Ennui. 

[11] 



Sketches in Lyric 

He stirred, and looked about in wonderment. 
Slowly his tired senses quickened, and in his veins 
suffused a fuller, warmer beat. A clearer vision 
lighted in his eye, and fancy lifted from his brow the 
shade of sombre thought. Despondency fell from 
him as embers from a flame-tipped branch, for lo! 
beholding Spring, he loved her ! Her beauty charmed 
him; her sweet simplicity beguiled him; the dainty 
lightness of her limbs, the freshness of her all-per- 
vading presence drew him. 

Arising, he stood before her with outstretched 
arms, and as she yielded to love's sweet allurement 
he held her close, and said: 

"Dear maid, I plight my troth to thee, and shall 
henceforth my full allegiance give thee; yet must I 
here confession make of my unworthiness. Along 
the way of life I have known many loves, — ^loves of 
the heart, beneficent and tender, — loves of the flesh, 
compelling, eager, — loves of the mind, stern crea- 
tures they, — and wanton loves, insatiate and bold. 
Too, phantom loves have lured me into tangled 
paths, and vanished like a wind-swept cloud. With 
each and all I have had intimate concern, and in 
these close relationships have suffered and have 
joyed to the full measure of my manhood's deep com- 
plexity. Yet, here you find me, solitary, for each in 
turn I have relinquished or abandoned in irritating 
unfulfillment or dull satiety, and back unto myself 
have drawn in futile contemplation of life's quest. 

"Dear maiden, having thus my full confession made, 
may I yet claim thy pure and gentle heart?" 

Spring drew his cheek to hers and answer made: 

[12] 



Prose and Verse 

"Fear not that I shall love thee less because thou 
hast not turned from life, nor that I could have loved 
thee more had life but passed thee by, for those 
grown wise through her tuition but bring to me a 
richer understanding of human strength and weak- 
ness, and hence a gentler toleration. And so, I 
plight my troth to thee, and give thee to my inmost 
life full access. I make no stipulation. I claim no 
vow. Nor do I fear to be betrayed; for never yet 
hath soul found weariness in me, — the deathless child 
of Nature, — Spring." 



[13] 



Sketches in Lyric 



JOSEPHINE OF FRANCE* 



A 



N empire is my pedestal! Proud sovereign of 
noble France am I, and consort of a victor who 
bears the conquered flags of Europe as trophy to his 
genius! Scorning the patronizing touch of Church 
and State, his hands have placed upon my brow the 
jeweled emblem of supremacy, to match His Majesty 
in place and power. His hands, that know so well 
the sweet caress of love, have fashioned by their 
magic strength a throne whereon I stand beside him, 
proud, triumphant. The pageantry of her, my pred- 
ecessor, was paltry compared to this my dower. 
Hers was the accident of birth ; mine is achieved by 
conquest and acclaim, and nobly won by his uncon- 
querable will. Poor Antoinette! bartered by state, 
and wived to opulent satiety, to be at last the victim 
of vain greed and gluttony, — the tragic toy of fallen 
monarchy ! 



*Part No. I is a soliloquy of Josephine when she is the wife 
of Napoleon and Empress of France. Part No. II is when she 
has been divorced by him, and at Malmaison, near Paris, she 
lives in solitude, supplanted in place and power by Marie Louise, 
who becomes the mother of his son. The birth of this son is 
made known to Josephine by the firing of cannon. It has 
been said that Napoleon's motive for divorcing Josephine arose 
from his ambition for succession of rule through an heir. 



[14] 



Prose and Verse 

Empress of France am I, yet much less queen than 
woman; loving the caress and whispered confidence 
of my beloved spouse far more than all the panoply 
of power; more dear to me by far his loving touch 
than are the jewels of my crown or all they sym- 
bolize. * * * Incarnate woman, I, encompassing 
in mind and heart the fatuous foibles and the yearn- 
ings, the terrors and the triumphs, the fears and 
fancies, the passions and the silent sorrows of the 
eternal and everlasting She. Incarnate woman, I; 
mate of the male, mother to his young, comrade and 
wife, consort and queen, — man's complement and 
equal in life's achievement. * hs ♦ 

These little hands, * * * how fragile are they, 
and how fair! Embellished with bright jewels and 
perfumed like unto a budding flower. Hands fash- 
ioned to caress a baby's cheek, to fondle, and to lace 
themselves through strands of silken hair. Frail, 
tender hands, to be uplifted in pious supplication or 
extended in maternal benediction. Hands to be 
warmly clasped by love and pulse in quick response 
to its awakening touch. Yet, potent hands are they ; 
yea, strong as death. Hands of your Josephine, my 
lord ! Hold, hold them tight ! You have not climbed 
alone the path of glory ! You need these little hands ! 

II 

Alas, these little hands! how tense and lean and 
impotent they have become! * * * These lips 
that love has sated, how dry and hungry now! 
* * * This heart that beat so vibrant 'gainst his 

[15] 



Sketches in Lyric 

own, how leaden does it lie against my numbing 
flesh! * * * Ambition! Can it be that it has 
crept into his heart and smothered his dear love for 
me! Ambition! * * * j^^s it made of me a 
bagatelle, a plaything, to be discarded at its bidding? 
I ? — I ? — the peerless Josephine ? — the idol of his eager 
passion, the sharer of his early triumphs, the fond 
and faithful comrade of his glorious manhood ? — 

Ah, little hands, where are your hold — your subtlety 
— your sweet allurement? — And I, incarnate woman, 
what demoniac fate has robbed me of the culmina- 
tion of my loving wifehood, while she, the daughter 
of an alien, gives unto France his child? * * * 

Alas, as barren as a severed bough life lies before 
me, and long, lean years reach onward mockingly. 

Hark! 'Tis the cannon's note! One, — * * * 
two — a son is born to France! His son — and hers! 
— Dear Lord, forgive that I should covet her this 
hour ! — But no ! for I am Josephine ! And no ignoble 
thought shall stain my heart ! 

For love of him — my Emperor, and France — fair, 
lovely France, I here renunciation make, and purge 
my soul of self! 

Vive Tenfant Bonaparte! 

Vive! Vive la France! 



[16] 



Prose and Verse 



w 



REVERIE 
(To G. L. K.) 



E sat upon the grass that summer's day, to- 
gether, you and I. 

Around us circled nature's green-clad sentinels, 
making inviolate the quietude. 

Overhead a white-winged pigeon passed, unheed- 
ing, to its mate, and downy pollen drifted 'round 
about us on the caressing breeze. 

Nearby the Grecian columns o£ a temple gleamed 
reposefully, and seemingly to chide such dignity a 
leafy bough leaned playfully above your shoulder 
and tapped its fragrant kisses on your cheek. 

We sat upon the grass, — the gentle, healing grass, 
together, you and I. 

The agitating past receded into sweet forgetful- 
ness, and the insatiate future withheld for that kind 
hour its greedy claims. 

All weariness of heart and stress of mind resolved 
into the realm of vanished dreams. 

We sat upon the grass together, you and I, and 
since that summer's day all days hold something of 
that hour, — something of its benign simplicity and 
its mysterious wonder, 

[17] 



Sketches in Lyric 

One day I shall be laid beneath the grass, but 
through kind nature's transmutation I shall trans- 
verse dividing space! 

I shall become the wind, to wrap myself about 
you. * * * 

I shall become a sunbeam, to warm and cheer 
you. * * * 

I shall ride the vaporous cloud to fall a crystal drop 
upon your brow, or rest, a gleaming jewel, in the 
flower you cull. * * ♦ 

I shall glisten on the wing of blue-birds nesting 
near your window, and whose song shall flood your 
soul with memories of me. * h^ * 

I shall visit you in day-dreams, to share your soli- 
tude, and you shall find me in the darkness that 
brings you restful sleep. * * * 

Commingled with the elements I shall encompass 
you, and not an hour shall pass but that in still, 
small voice I shall make known to you my pres- 



ence. 



* ♦ ♦ 



Yea, in your very heart I shall pulsate, component 
of your sentient being. 



And when you, too, have passed from life's encir- 
cling hold, then the infinitudes shall be our pathless 
realm, and atom unto atom companioned we shall 
mingle in the music of the spheres. 



[18] 



Prose and Verse 



CLEOPATRA 

(Soliloquy) 

X HE daughter of a hundred kings am I, yet slave 
to that fair god who rules without a scepter or a 
crown. The pride of all the Ptolemys flows in my 
veins, yet do I bow an humble and submissive sub- 
ject to Love. * * * Ah, Antony, that Eg3^t's 
queen should yield to thy seduction! And yet, what 
kingdom is worth thy fervent kiss? What pride of 
pedigree can match the glory of thy passion? I 
would relinquish all to be thy honored and beloved 
mate, nor could it so have been but for the qualities 
which make me queen in spirit ; for of so noble mind 
art thou, — of such surpassing parts, that only great- 
ness matching e*en thine own could have enthralled 
thee. ♦ * * And Caesar Augustus, can he 
draw thee hence to leave me desolate! No, by my 
life I swear that never Cleopatra's abdication shall 
swell his triumphs ! My Antony shall know no sub- 
jugation but that of my caresses, and Rome with all 
her power cannot subdue the will of Egypt. * * * 
How fair the sunlight falls about me and mellows 
by its touch the polished marble of this floor! 
* * * How green and fertile stretches yonder the 
valley of the Nile! The Nile, — making fecund the 
desert, and enameling with riches the full expanse 

[19] 



Sketches in Lyric 

of my beloved realm! The Nile, — cradle of earth's 
most ancient race! The Nile, — winding like a rib- 
bon about the tombs where rest my ancestors,— 
tombs built of time and glory into majestic pyra- 
mids which clasp the girdle of the Orient. * * * 
And these grey pyramids, hoary with age, locked in 
mysterious history, writ deep with the traditions of 
a dynasty, — shall they become defiled by alien hands 
and despoiled of all their kingly treasure? Shall 
those dim halls of sacred dead be invaded by van- 
dals, and Egypt's crypted kings be scoffed at by 
unholy tongues? No! By the heritage my fathers 
bore me, I shall maintain the sanctity of their repose, 
and in myself uphold the glory of their name ! Love 
may obsess the woman, but Egypt's queen shall still 
be Egypt's queen, and wifehood shall not rob her 
of her majesty nor stain the honor of her crown. 

* * * Hark! In that step a menace grips my 
heart! What portend doth it bear? * * * And 
that knock * * * it echoes like a doom against 
the portals of my mind. * * * Attend, good 
slave. Give entrance. * * * A message from the 
foul intruder? * * * Unroll the scroll, and read. 

* * * Enough! Say unto Caesar that Cleopatra 
makes no capitulation, and yields no jot or tittle of 
her heritage to any! Be-gone! * * * Iris, — 
Charmion, — my queenly vestments and my jewels! 
Bind on my brow the pearls of Ecuador, and on my 
wrists clasp turquoise bands. About my throat twine 
gleaming strands with sparkling pendants, and place 
my scepter near at hand ! No cringing suppliant shall 

[20] 



Prose and Verse 

meet the enemy, but one caparisoned as queen, and of 
a purpose to command! 

My heart shall still be Antony's, but Egypt claims 
for aye my soul ! 



[21] 



Sketches in Lyric 



I 



HER HAND 
(To G. L. K.) 



STROKE the hand of my beloved and contem- 
plate its facile power to lead my spirit through paths 
of melody into the realm of fancy. 

On waves of harmony it lifts my senses out of 
corporal self and into that mysterious country, the 
principality of genius. 

I follow, follow, as my beloved leads, and enter in 
processional that tone cathedral where kneel the wor- 
shipers of beauty. In reverence I bow, reciirient of 
its benediction, and rise refreshed and chastened. 

I follow, follow on, as the hand of my beloved 
leads, to tread green pastures and walk beside still 
waters. The scent of budding leaves and fragrant 
grasses, the whir of wings, the touch of mellov/ earth 
lull me to sweet tranquillity, and I linger there in 
pastoral content. 

Again the hand of mj^ beloved leads where valor 
stands triumphant. The martial call, the requiem of 
fallen brave, each draws me as that hand may beckon. 

Into the sumptuous Orient's heart, the mystic 
desert's solitude, afar, anear, I follow, follow. 

But best of all I love the hand of my beloved when 
of her own true heart it melodizes and I am drawn 
into the star-draped chamber of her inner self. There 

[22] 



Prose and Verse 

do I yield in full abandon to the beauty which her 
nature wreathes about me. There does that magic 
hand reveal to me life in fruition, renewing in my 
consciousness its highest import. There do I feel its 
ecstasies and tears, its sweeps of color and its hueless 
voids. 

Oh, wondrous hand, to weave in tapestries of tone 
such fancies rare and themes sublime ! — to lift on un- 
dulating sound this feeble spirit to the infinite! 

I stroke the hand of my beloved, marveling at so 
divine an instrument. 

In fervent gratitude I press my lips to the fair, 
potent hand of my beloved. 



[23] 



Sketches in Lyric 



MY MOODS 



I 



LOVE my moods. They are my comrades, — my 
play-fellows by day, my bed-fellows by night. They 
bring me no reproach, no criticism; they carry no 
regret and offer no antagonisms; they cost me no 
exertion and occasion no expense. And yet I owe 
them much, — these straggling visitors, these jack-o'- 
lantern creatures, these vagrant, variant comrades. 
Like unto the pages of the book of life are they. 
Aye, they are life, re-touched by the mysterious 
brush of memory. 

There is the intellectual mood, when my mind 
wanders in the clean realm of thought, — that wind- 
swept sky where no emotion penetrates. In it I find 
the stimulus of wine, — white, limpid wine, and grow 
drunken on abstrusities, revel in mental labyrinths, 
and return to find a warm body awaiting the descent, 
— a tired, hungry body full of human sensibilities, 
eager impulses and desires. 

Then there is the mood to leave behind me the 
pave, the peak of spire, the strain and stress of this 
big town, and roam complacently the lanes and fields ; 
— to intimately touch the leaves and grasses, to listen 
to the creatures of the forest, to hug the homely 
trunk of weather-beaten trees, and sense the one- 

[24] 



Prose and Verse 

ness of myself and earth as prone I lie against its 
mellow surface. This yearning quite obsesses me at 
times and sinks down deep into my consciousness. 

Too, there is the mood to mix and mingle with 
my kind, — the human friendship mood. In this I 
want the clasp of sympathetic hands, — to laugh, to 
talk of household commonplaces, to exchange a 
jolly story, to sing or hear a quaint old ditty, to romp 
with children, and to chatter about clothes and folks 
and folderols. 

And then the mood of books and music comes to 
me, and all the charm of art beguiles me. I lend 
myself to fancy's themes in poetry, in romance and 
in essay. I follow genius into heights sublime, and 
grow expansive in comprehensive thought and feel- 
ing. The sensuous call of music stirs my sensibili- 
ties; I hear anew old melodies and winding harmo- 
nies. The weird lament of Canio, the pastorale of 
Manon, the apotheosis of Marguerite, — all merge 
and mingle in my memory, and every sense is lulled 
or quickened by undulating sound; I am in tune 
with all the universe and seem myself a note of some 
great anthem. 

These moods are all expressed, — ^become a part of 
outward living; but there is one too intimate and 
tender to disclose to any. It is the mood of You, — 
You and the Dawn. 

Relaxed by sleep your head rests softly in the curve 
of my warm neck, your moist breath falling like a 

[25] 



Sketches in Lyric 

caress across my bosom; my arm enfolds your 
shoulder and my hand lies close above your heart. 
Dawn filters slowly through the draperies of the win- 
dow and reveals in silhouette your profile 'gainst my 
breast. Ah, the kindly dawn, — veiling yet disclosing 
your face there; veiling its every trace of time, of 
stress, of pain, — disclosing its strong beauty, its 
nobility, its mobile gentleness. I lean my cheek 
against the cushion of your hair and contemplate: 
You and the Dawn * * * 

What matter that the dawn portends the scorching 
noon-tide, — the melancholy night? My mood of you 
excludes them, quite. A deep unspeakable content 
pervades my mind and fills my heart, — the sweet con- 
tent of life's fulfillment. 

The while my mood of you abides there is to me no 
other thing in time or space than this: 

You — and the Dawn. 



[26] 



Prose and Verse 



TO A PINE TREE 



I 



N solitude's immensity, 
With brow serene and high, 
A silhouette of density 
Against the bending skj^, 

With roots locked 'round the nurturing veins 
Of mother nature's breast, 
And arms outstretched to winds and rains 
From vaults of east and west;— 
A better type I could not need 
Of perfect strength and calm, 
No fears to fight, no hopes to feed, 
No dreams of help or harm. 
Glad would I be to lay this shell 
Harassed by human strife 
Upon the mound which feeds so well 
Thy strong and simple life; — 
To feel these restless atoms flow 
Through nature's heart to thee, 
And by this transmutation know 
Thy great serenity. 



[27] 



Sketches in Lyric 



SONG 

OkYLARK! Have you heard the news? 
Summer, wondrous summer is begun! 

Ah, I would soar with you 

Into the mystic blue, 
Singing to the summer sun! 

Starling! Have you heard the news? 

Summer, red-lipped summer is begun! 

Yea, she has climbed from snows 
Into the heart of the rose, 

Blooming in love's summ.er sun ! 



[28] 



Prose and Verse 



IN THE PARK 



A 



GIANT disc of scarlet poppies spreads at my 
feet, — 
A mat of flame upon the green expanse. 

The gleam and glow of this incarnate thing 

Exhales, as 'twere, a subtle incense 

Which wreathes itself about me 

And stirs to mutiny my senses. 

Yearnings that I had shrived and laid away 

Quicken derisively. 

And unlived ecstasies lay hold upon me 

And clamor for fulfillment. 

Alas, these ruddy petals 

Do but flaunt their sensuous beauty 

To lash a vain desire and mock my loneliness. 

O, little hurrying cloud, I beg you stoop. 

Enfold me in your cooling veil. 

And on the bosom of the wind dispel this pulsing 
want ! 

Or bear me to some solitary niche of earth 

Where dull despair and I may lie together in aban- 
don. 

[29] 



Sketches in Lyric 



BUTTERFLIES 



B 



UTTERFLIES! Butterflies! Wings of my spirit ! 
Floating afar over meadow and sea; 
Colorful fragments that shimmer and glisten, 
Tinged with the sadness and gladness of me. 

There on a daffodil, poised like a jewel; 
Yonder aloft, like a sun-beam at play; 
Butterflies pale as a maiden's first sorrow; 
Butterflies bright as her nuptial day. 

There is sweet Faith, in novitiate whiteness! 
Ah, but those velvety stipples of doubt 
Dotting with purple thy sails, my beauty! 
Nor can the sweep of the winds fan them out. 

Yonder is Hope, evanescent and golden! 
Sail on and upward, my radiant one ! 
Touch not thy frail wing to earth, lest it falter! 
Winnow thy flight to the cloud-pillowed sun! 

Love, too, is there, undulating, seductive. 
Wafting a kiss to the dewy wild-rose; 
Flirting with flag-lily, flox and red-clover. 
Palpitant, teasing, with never repose. 

Butterflies! Butterflies! Tell me, whence come ye? 
Wherefore not tarry a moment today? 

[30] 



Prose and Verse 

Whither disperse ye from my verdant meadows? 
What is it beckons and lures you away? 

Faith, Hope and Love I would name you, my treas- 
ures; 
Yea, too, wan Sorrow, and pensive Regret; 
Mingling and vanishing, exquisite shadow-shapes 
Tracing on azure life's mute silhouette. 

Butterflies! Butterflies! Wings of my spirit! 
Pathless and silent ye're come and are gone! 
Out of the nothingness — into the nowhere; 
Fringed with the darkness and flecked with the dawn. 



[31] 



Sketches in Lyric 



YOUR VOICE 

(To M. W.) 

X STOOD amid the multitude, a-weary, and there 

seemed 
No thing attuned unto myself, no heart that under- 
stood 
The sob and smile within my own, amid that mul- 
titude. 

And then, one day I heard your voice, 
And, hearing, was at rest. 
So deep, so warm, so tender is your understanding 

heart. 
So rich, so sweet, so wonderful the music in your 

soul, 
That I thereby am put in chord with all the mul- 
titude ; 

For in your voice humanity 
Doth sob and smile. 



[32] 



Prose and Verse 



O^ER THE WAY 



o 



FT in the stilly night, across the way 
I hear a little child cry plaintively, 
And well I know a gentle hand 
Soothes it again to slumberland, — 

Dear little love-flower o'er the way. 

My hands lie impotently on my breast, 
Where never baby-head shall stir or rest. 
Sleep beckons, and in realms divine 
I clasp a star-child that is mine, — 

My little dream-flower o*er the way. 



[33] 



Sketches in Lyric 



LINES SENT WITH A MINIATURE 



I 



F in this pictured face you can but trace 
A memory that stirs your heart to cheer, 
Or if you find therein a might-have-been 
To muse o*er when no other face is near, 
Then let your finger-tips, — perchance your lips. 
Lay gently there a lingering caress. 
And at your touch I swear you shall find there 
Sentient response to that mute tenderness. 



[34] 



Prose and Verse 



TO A LITTLE OLD-FASHIONED GIRL* 



I 



N a simple and dust-tarnished frame on the wall 
Hangs an old-timey likeness, faded and small. 
Just a quaint little girl, with a prim, sawdust doll, — 

A dear little old-fashioned girl. 
She sits very straight, in a cane-seated chair; 
A smooth little head-band holds back her hair; 
And her copper-toed shoes are so tiny and queer; — 

A dear little old-fashioned girl. 

Oh, dear little girl, how I wish you could say 
What your thoughts are, and if you are living today ! 
Are you still fair and rosy? or feeble and gray? 

You dear little old-fashioned girl! 
In place of your doll, with its stiff, china hair 
Does a soft little babe of your own nestle there? 
Are your days full of drizzle? or sunny and fair, 

My dear little old-fashioned girl? 

You look at me earnestly. Maybe you know 
That I, too, was a little girl once — ^long ago. 
It seems like a beautiful dream, but it's so. 

My dear little old-fashioned girl ! 
And you somehow bring into the hurrying days 
The quieting charm of your own simple ways, 

[35] 



Sketches in Lyric 

That cheers me and soothes me, and tranquilly stays, 
You dear little old-fashioned girl. 

You sit very still, and you say not a word. 

But deep in my heart your sweet prattle is heard 

Like the ripple of water, or warble of bird. 

You dear little old-fashioned girl! 
Your sweet presence glows like a beautiful star; 
So calm and so fair, though so dim and so far; 
And I love you because you are just what you are, — 

A dear little old-fashioned girl. 



*An edition of this poem with musical accompaniment by the 
author is published by Clayton F. Summy Co., Chicago, through 
whose kind permission the lines are here printed. 

[36] 



Prose and Verse 



A 



MA BELLE 
(To H. B.) 



GLEAMING coil of silken strands, 
Touched by the sun-god's dimpled hands, 
A subtle fragrance on the air, — 
Her hair. 

A bit of dusk, a bit of light, 
A lingering sunbeam kissed by night, 
Mirth's scimitar, truth's paradise, — 
Her eyes. 

A bow of rose-leaves strung with pearls, 
A cupid shaking saucy curls, 
A flower where joy sweet nectar sips, — 
Her lips. 

A blue-bell rung by elfin hands, 
A fountain spraying on white sands, 
A teasing bit of golden chaff,-— 
Her laugh. 

A velvet rose of nameless hue. 
Warm as the sun, fresh as the dew, 
Here let my cheek be mutely pressed; — 
Her breast. 

[37] 



Sketches in Lyric 



H 



THE TREASURE-BOX* 

(Of Ninon de Lenclos) 



OW smooth is its ebony surface! How fine 
And mellow the trace of this ivory line! 
How well it has guarded through each passing year 
The treasures that now lie disclosed to me here ! 

A packet of letters ! Ah, 'twas with young hands 

I folded them under these delicate bands! 
How well I remember the day that v/e met j ♦ * * 

Yes, yes, at Verona; I could not forget 
The gown that I wore ! 'Twas my first polonaise — 

A buff-colored satin with violet sprays. 
Throughout the whole season these love-missives 
came, * * "^^ 

And yet I recall not the dear fellow's name ! 

And this bizarre girdle from old Trinidad 

I wore at de Maintenon's bal masquerade ! 

'Tis broken. Ah, yes, 'twas crushed I've no doubt 
By the too ardent pressure of arms thereabout! 

'Twas only the clasp of my corsage, withal. 

That yielded its hold at de Maintenon's ball ! 

[38] 



Prose and Verse 

And, pray, what avail were the ruse of disguise 
If prudery still held her mask o'er the eyes? 

And this f * * * Can it be that flower may fold 

In its petals the kiss that was pressed there of 
old? 
That its color may vanish, its fragrance may die, 

Yet shroud the warm tear of a sorrowing eye? 
E'en so, I swear by this frivolous fan — 

This sweet-scented, sandal-wood breath of 
Japan- 
That nothing of cheerlessness shall you impart. 

And only your beauty shall dwell in my heart. 

A bit of old lace from the sleeve of Conde ! — 

A dance-programmx bearing the arms of 
d'Estrees! — 
And this quaint medallion encircled with blue — 

From my red-robed adorer, Richelieu! 
What lovers to contemplate! — aged and young! 

What eager vows whispered! What madrigals 
sung! 
This sonnet La Rochefoucauld penned with such art 

Were enough to subdue e'en a termagant's heart ! 

Ah, drear were the autumn of life did not Spring 
On memory's canvas her daffodils fling ! 

And wisdom would be but a dullard, forsooth, 
Had folly not schooled him a bit in his youth ! 

I close your smooth lid, I turn your small key, 

Consigning to silence these phantoms of me; — 

[39] 



Sketches in Lyric 

The coquetries, sophistries, laughter and love 

I garnered from life, here to be treasure-trove, — 

That only your depths and my day-dreams may know 
The colorful past of Ninon de Lenclos. 



*Madame de Lenclos: Born at Paris, 1616: died there 1706: 
A noted French woman of pleasure. She retained her beauty 
and charm to a very old age. She received the highest society 
in her salon, which was compared for its tone with the Hotel 
Rambouillet. Madame Scarron (afterward de Maintenon), 
Madame de Lafayette and Christina of Sweden were her friends. 
St. Evremond, La Rochefoucauld, D'Estrees, the great Conde 
and three generations of the family of Sevigne were among her 
lovers. According to Voltaire Richelieu was the first of these. 

The Century Dictionary and Encyclopedia. 
[40] 



Prose and Verse 



A SOUTHERN VALENTINE 

X HEAR the katy-did a-scrapin' on his silver wing, 
Beseechin' little katy-did to come an* hear him sing; 

I see the fire-fly sittin' on the sweet-potato-vine, 
Tryin' to coax his lady-love to come and see him 
shine ; 

I hear the water tricklin' through the shadows 'roun' 

the mill, 
A-lookin' for the sunbeam that kissed it on the hill; 

I smell the yellow honey-suckle by the window-pane 
As it sends its fragrance searchin' for its lover-lass, 
the rain; 

I hear the whippoor-will a-callin' from the meadow 

gate, 
Sort o' sad and lonesome-like, unto his absent mate; 

So with all these little lovers I fell to lovin', too; 
And it set my heart to singin', and I send the song 
to you. 



[41] 



Sketches in Lyric 



THE LITTLE RING 



T 



HE little ring you gave to me 

I yet shall hold, 
And to my lips shall nightly press 

Its rim of gold; 
Against my heart when life is done 

It still shall lie, 
Dear symbol of a perfect love 

That cannot die. 



MEMORY 



o 



H Memory, thou phantom child, 
I know not whence thou'rt come. 
Nor if in other realms than this 
My heart shall be thy home; 
But while thou'rt mine I'll hold thee close 
And thy caress beguile. 
As to thy lips my own I press 
With tears or smile. 



[42] 



Prose and Verse 



THE TRUNDLE-BED* 



I 



SOMETIMES draw apart the heavy curtain of 
the years 
And look into the dim and tender past; 
Again a little child I seem, — a child of smiles and 
tears, 
Such as in memory you, — and you, hold fast. 
The busy day is ended; the toys are laid away, 

The "Now I lay me" said in cozy gown, 
And 'neath the flow'ry patch-work quilt, where fire- 
light shadows play, 
Into my trundle-bed I nestle down. 

No art was used to fashion that little trundle-bed; 

No rare tradition marks its history; 
And yet about its simple frame, from stubby foot to 
head. 
There seems to dwell a hallowed mystery — 
The mystery of mother-love, that wreathes itself 
about 
The curly head there pillowed with such care. 
And like a benediction, caressing and devout, 
I hear again the old, familiar air: 
"Hush my dear, lie still and slumber. 
Holy angels guard thy bed.'' 

[43] 



Sketches in Lyric 

We leave without regret youth's painted toys along 
the way, 
As the tomorrows glide into the past, 
And in our turn take up life's work, or enter in its 
play, 
But one dear vision hold we to the last. 
'Tis the vision of a gentle mother bending o'er her 
child. 
With ever patient touch and gentle tread; 
And back to tranquil yesterdays our hearts are still 
beguiled. 
In day-dreams of a little trundle-bed. 



*An edition of this poem with musical accompaniment by the 
author is published by Clayton F. Summy Co., Chicago, through 
whose kind permission the lines are here printed. 

[44] 



Prose and Verse 



w 



YOU 
(To O. L.) 



HAT is the charm of you? Whence the allure 
of you? 
This do I ask as I look in the face of you. 
Is it the womanly courage and cheer of you? 
Is it the tenderness pearling the tear of you? 
Is it the mien of you, gracious and kind? 
Is it the myriad reach of your mind? 
Is it the sweet little devil that peeks at you 
Out of the rose-cups that dimple the cheeks of you? 
Is it the gentle and delicate art of you? 
Is it the wonderful, wonderful heart of you? 

Ah, it is every delectable bit of you, 
From tippy-toes to the fair-templed wit of you; 
Happily yield I in full to the thrall of you, 
AU-of-me loving the exquisite all-of-you. 



[45] 



Sketches in Lyric 



THE DESK CLERK 

jL stand as a shackled slave, enstalled by the grip 

of fate, 
'Round me the mortised town pulsing with love and 

hate ; 
Haltered to pen and file early and late I stand; 
Tethered to desk and stool, brain and limb and hand. 

The bigness of all the past, the beauty of eons gone 
Verge in my spirit's depths — merge in unuttered 

song; 
The sorrow of dying worlds moans in my pregnant 

heart. 
Dear human love and joy there mingle and depart. 

And each through the days* routine calls to my soul 
for birth. 

Calls from the vast unknown here to my niche on 
earth ; 

Bitter their plea, yet sweet as the fall of rain on my 
face, 

Here in my little stall, wedged midst the common- 
place. 

He who has basked on the soil, bathed in the winds 
of the plain, 

[46] 



Prose and Verse 

Cannot grant lease of his soul, be it for love or for 

gain; 
Having communed with the stars still in his dreams 

they shall glow; 
That which they gave he shall keep ; that which they 

taught he shall know. 

So, to my stall in the mart measureless riches I bring ; 
Into the drab of the hours golden-hued fancies I fling ; 
Into the murk of the days flows all the crimson and 

mauve 
I gleaned from the sun-dowered fields and culled 

from the shadow-flecked grove. 



[47] 



Sketches in Lyric 



YOUR DAY-DREAMS* 



D 



REAM on, dear child, dream on; 
Dream while the spring is in your heart! 
Dream of white butterflies a-wing. 
And rose-rimmed clouds that dance apart ! 

Dream on, my lad, dream on; 
Dream of green hills beyond, afar! 
Dream of the sun-kissed path that leads 
Across them to the distant star! 

Dream on, comrade, yea, dream! 
Follow your vision up and on; 
Blend with the days* dull commonplace 
The sweet refulgence of the dawn. 

Dream on, dear heart, dream on! 
Dream while life's mystic web you weave, 
For at the last 'twill hold no stran 
More fair than dreams you now conceive. 

Dream on, beloved, dream! 

Dream high, — dream straight, — dream true! 

For in the realm of the unseen 

Dreams are the soul of you. 

*An edition of this poem with musical accompaniment is 
published by Clayton F. Simimy Co., Chicago, through whose 
kind permission the lines are here printed. 

[48] 



Prose and Verse 



CAP AND BELLS 



L 



OVE came to me one day, and laughing said, 
"How do you like my bells and cap of red?" 
Said I, "They're much too frivolous and gay!" 
He turned upon his heel and skipped away. 

Years passed. Love came again, and mutely stood. 
His brow was shadowed by grief's sombre hood. 
I took him to my heart, and pray that there 
We'll find the cap and bells he used to wear. 



[49] 



Sketches in Lyric 



RETRIBUTION 

1 PLUCKED a rose 
And pressed my hungry lips into its heart; 

The fragile thing 
At my too eager touch crumbled apart; 

With swift remorse 
I sought to fold its petals close again, 

Only to find 
Them spread upon my palm like crimson stain. 



[50] 



Prose and Verse 



OCTOBER 



I 



WALKED through the woods on yesterday; 
The leaves lay dead at my feet; 

They rustled in jest 

Then sank to rest, 
Awaiting their shroud of sleet. 
A lonely thrush sang a requiem 
'Neath the wooded dome overhead, 

Then took his flight 

With the coming night, 
And left me there with the dead. 

I roamed through the past on yesterday; 
Life's joys lay pallid and sweet; 

So tenderly fair 

They rested there. 
Dead as the leaves at my feet. 
I sealed with a tear each silent bier, 
And to youth I said good-by; 

Then I turned with a will 

To the star-crowned hill 
Where life's achievements lie. 



[51] 



Sketches in Lyric 



A 



DAISY AND STAR 

(To L. B.) 



STAR shone in heaven's dome, serene and far; 
A simple daisy dared to love that star; 
Rooted to earth she was, yet with delight 
She reached with yearning toward that star each 

night. 
And lo ! A star-beam stooped and kissed her face* 
And spread its radiance in that lowly place. 

Ah, love finds love's abode, though near or far. 
I am that earth-bound flow'r; you are the star. 



[52] 



Prose and Verse 



D 



THE PATCH-WORK QUILT* 



ID Grandma ever tell you about the patch- work 

quilt 
That lies across the sofa in her room? 
It is m.ade from scraps of dresses that she wore when 

she was young, 
And some of them were woven on a loom. 
Sometimes when it is raining and I can't play out 

of doors 
She lets me spread it out upon the floor, 
And as I choose the pieces I'd like to hear about 
She tells me of the dresses that she wore. 

It isn't just the dresses that Grandma tells about, — 

It's the things that happened when she had them on ; 

And almost every piece that's in that dear old patch- 
work quilt 

Holds the mem'r}^ of a sorrow or a song. 

Oh, things were very wonderful when Grandmama 
was young; 

You ought to hear her tell about it all! 

The ladies all were beautiful, the children all were 
good. 

And the men were all so gallant and so tall! 

[53] 



Sketches in Lyric 

She calls the quilt her memory-bed, and every little 

piece 
Is a flower blooming in its scented fold; 
There are red ones for the roses, and blues for "don't 

forgets," 
And yellow ones for sun-flowers of gold. 
There's one she calls sweet-lavender, that smells like 

baby-clothes, 
And one of purple, like the sun-set skies; 
I never speak of these two, or the grey one like the 

rain. 
For when I do dear Grandma always cries. 

My Grandma told me once that life is just a patch- 
work quilt. 

Of births and deaths and marriages and things. 

And that sometimes when you're looking for a lovely 
piece of red 

You only find a knot of faded strings; 

But she says the red is redder when it's by a piece 
of brown, 

And grey is not so grey by sunny gold. 

Oh, I hope I'll have a lovely patch-work quilt, like 
Grandmama's, 

To show to little children when I'm old. 



*An edition of this poem with musical accompaniment by the 
author is published by Clayton F. Summy Co., Chicago, through 
whose kind permission the lines are here printed. 

[54] 



Prose and Verse 



GRANDMA'S GARDEN 

X KNOW a lovely garden where the sweetest flow- 
ers grow! 

Oh, their beauty and their fragrance! — the dearest 
flowers I know ; — 

Just a quaint, old-fashioned garden, yet rare withal, 
me-thinks. 

Are its beds of — ^not carnations, but, well — they are 
just pinks. 

'Tis through an old, old gateway, and I've heard 

Grandma tell 
How, when she was a maiden, Dan Cupid wove a 

spell 
About its mossy trellises, and through its pebbled 

walks. 
And shot his silver arrows among its pink-tipped 

stalks. 

And as I breathe the fragrance of these old-fashioned 
flowers 

My heart drinks from the chalice of those long-van- 
ished hours; 

For grandmas once were maidens, and Cupid would, 
me-thinks, 

Make maidens lovely grandmas, with gardens of 
sweet pinks. 

[55] 



Sketches in Lyric 



MAMMY'S SOLDIER-GAL* 



I 



N the dewy mom of childhood there was ever at 
my side 
A dear, old, black-faced mammy, my timid steps to 

guide; 
All my childish troubles vanished, — flew away like 

frightened birds, 
And my trembling lip grew steady when I'd hear old 
Mammy's words: 

"Dar now, dar now, honey! 

You aint a-gwine ter cry! 

You'se Mammy's little soldier-gal, 

An' dat's de reason why 

You'se gwine ter stan' up straight, an' smile! 

Dat's whut you is! Why, shoo! 

Dat aint nuthin', honey, 

Fo' a soldier-gal, lak you!" 

The broken doll, or tea-set, the little bruised toe; 
The have-tos and the mustn'ts, — the disappointing 

no, — 
Each grief she helped to conquer one by one, and 

day by day, 
For my pride and courage quickened when I'd hear 
old Mammy say: 

"Dar now, dar now, honey! 
Whut's dat in yo' eye? 

[56] 



Prose and Verse 

You'se Mammy*s little soldier-gal, 

An' soldiers dey don' cry! 

You'se gwine ter stan' up straight, an' smile! 

Dat's it ! Dat's it ! Why, shoo ! 

Dat aint nuthin', honey, 

Fo' a soldier-gal, lak you." 

Many years ago dear Mammy went to sleep, with 

folded hands; 
Yet sometimes her little soldier feels that Mammy 

understands 
When the cherished toys lie shattered, and the ugly 

bruises pain, 
For a voice seems calling, calling, like an echo 
through the rain: 

"Dar now, dar now, honey. 

You aint a-gwine ter cry! 

You'se Mammy's little soldier-gal. 

An' dat's de reason why 

You'se gv/ine ter stan' up straight, an' sm.ile, 

Jes' lak you used to do! 

Dat aint nuthin', honey, 

Fo' a soldier-gal, lak you." 



*An. edition of this poem with musical accompaniment by the 
author is published by Clayton F. Summy Co., Chicago, through 
whose kind permission the lines are here printed. 

[57] 



Sketches in Lyric 



FLOWER AND MAID 

O AID the bee unto the flower : 
*'Let me of your honey sip !" 
Said the man unto the maiden: 
"Let me kiss your glowing Up!'* 

"Drink thou freely," said the flower; 
"I but bloom my sweets to give.'' 
"Aye, my love," replied the maiden, 
" 'Tis in giving that I live." 

And the flower, still a flower. 
Bloomed serene, with heart of flame; 
But the maid, no longer maiden 
Wore the scarlet badge of shame. 



[58] 



Prose and Verse 



MY CASTLE 

X BUILDED me a castle, a castle in the air; 

'Twas fashioned in a day-dream, and it was wond'rous 
fair; 

Its turrets were of star-stuff, its dome was azure- 
browed ; 

Its far-spread terraces were laid with mauve and 
crimson cloud. 

And in my phantom castle no servient vassal knelt; 
There, panoplied in purple, no sceptered monarch 

dwelt ; 
No footstep passed its portals, no voice stirred in its 

halls ; 
Only my treasured fancies peopled its ambient walls. 

My castle — shall it vanish? No; by my life I swear 
That till I've drained love's chalice I shall hold revel 
there. 



[59] 



Sketches in Lyric 



THE WOOING 



I 



N a garden of glad flowers 
Wooed by summer sun and showers 

Drooped a rose-bud on her stem; 
Buds around her opening daily 
Nodded to each other gaily, 

But she seemed not one of them. 

Ever there in silence bending, 
Never from her bosom sending 

Breath of fragrance on the air; 
Opening not to spray of fountain 
Or to zephyr from the mountain 

She was passionless as fair. 

Then the night-wind came and swayed her, 
Boldly on his bosom laid her. 

Drew her to him, held her fast; 
And her leaves relaxed their tightness 
Round their shrine of virgin whiteness, 

Yielding there her heart at last. 

To its purest depths she led him, 
On its sweetest fragrance fed him 

Until all the night had flown; 
And her sisters in the morning 
Saw no bud that stem adorning. 

But a perfect rose, full blown. 

[60] 



Prose and Verse 



THE PLEIADES 

OeVEN fair sisters live up in the sky; 
I wonder how ever they climbed so high! 
They're dreadfully old, but they've never been wed; 
They never were born, and they'll never be dead. 
Every night when the sun goes down 
They dress themselves each in a spangled gown; 
And if it is fair they promenade there, — 
These gay old girls in the sky! 

Each wears a diamond upon her brow; — 
'Twas the gift of some god, I'd almost vow ! 
Never a scandal has touched their name, 
But even if naughty they'd not be to blame. 
And I shouldn't wonder that many a lark 
Is had up there — when the nights are dark; 
With a cloud for a screen they couldn't be seen, — 
These gay old girls in the sky! 

I've seen them wink at the m.an in the moon 
In spite of the lady he seems to spoon, 
And the dipper I wager they'd drink quite dry 
If it weren't that it's fastened so tight to the sky! 
They shamelessly practice their cunning wiles 
On old Orion, to win his smiles, 

[61] 



Sketches in Lyric 

And it may be that yet he'll be caught in the net 
Of these rollicking frolicking 
Girls in the sky! 

Now, if you are naughty, and don't say your prayers, 
When you wend your way up the golden stairs 
You'll not get a harp, and you'll not get a crown, 
For old Saint Peter will turn you down! 
But don't try to break through the golden gate, 
Nor gloomily stand and bemoan your fate, 
But just leave your card, and go in the big yard 
And play with the gay little 
Girls in the sky! 



[62] 



Prose and Verse 



THEN AND NOW* 



T 



HEN — her length was twenty inches, 
Now — her waist exceeds that girth; 
Then — the moon was her desire, 
Now — she simply wants the earth. 

Then — she grasped a small tin rattle. 
Now — she steers a limousine; 
Then — her dress a simple cotton, 
Now — it wears a dazzling sheen. 

Then — one ringlet crowned her forehead, 
Now — it's coifed with puffs and plat; 
Then — a little cap of worsted. 
Now — a fifty-dollar hat. 

Then — her words were few and lisping, 
Now — she doesn't lisp; she spiels; 
Then — her little foot was sockless, 
Now — she wears Du Barry heels. 

Then — her jewels were but dimples, 
Now — they sparkle like the sun; 
Then — her day would end at twilight, 
Now — at dusk it's just begun. 

[63] 



Sketches in Lyric 



Then — her drink was white and luke-warm, 
Now — it's amber, and is cold; 
Then — it must be fresh, and sweetened. 
Now — it's "dry," and very old. 

Then — life's pendulum swung slowly, 
Now — it's moving pretty fast; 
Then — Mi-Nino, with a future. 
Now — Milady, with a past. 



^Copyrighted by Life Publishing Co., and here used by their 
permission. 

[64] 



Prose and Verse 



THE BEETLE PARTY 



M 



ISTRESS BEETLE gave a party 
At the rose-bush by the wall; 
She had a lovely programme 
And refreshments for them all. 
Miss Cricket sang a solo, 
And Miss Honey-Bee sang, too. 
Accompanied by Katy-Did, 
Who scraped her wings 'most through! 
They all enjoyed the menu; 
The fresh honey was a treat; 
'Twas served in rose-leaf saucers. 
And was so cool and sweet ! 
The table was a toad-stool. 
The eating-fork a thorn; 
The dew was served in blue-bells 
And was gathered fresh at mom. 
Miss June-Bug's dress was gorgeous, 
And when Miss Fire-Fly came 
She made quite a sensation 
In her handsome skirt of flame! 
Miss Yellow- Jacket's costume 
Was striped, — a perfect fit; 
Her waist is much too slender 
But she seems quite proud of it! 
Miss Lady-Bug is charming; 

[65] 



Sketches in Lyric 



She certainly looks well 

In that polka-dotted satin. 

She's decidedly a belle! 

When the Spider-sisters entered 

It created quite a din; 

They really weren't invited! 

They just happened to "drop in." 

They're smart, but no one likes them; 

They hardly left the wall; 

They're not one bit attractive 

And have no style at all! 

Lord Caterpillar's getting fat; 

He wore his overcoat. 

It has a big fur collar 

That comes up 'round his throat. 

He must be quite rheumatic, 

For he didn't take it off. 

And little old Miss Frog was there ! 

She has an awful cough! 

Miss Mosquito tried to gossip 

With her naughty little wings; 

Her voice is so unpleasant. 

And she says such stinging things! 

Miss Grass-Hopper seemed happy. 

And wore her usual smile; 

She's rather green and awkward, though; 

I do not like her style ; 

She keeps her arms a-kimbo. 

And her feet up near her waist; 

Her manners are not graceful, 

She moves with too much haste! 

Grand-Daddy-Long-Legs came quite late, — 

[66] 



Prose and Verse 

Walked all the way, I'm told; 

He's really very dapper 

For one considered old! 

Some of them came in airplanes, 

Each steering his machine; 

As expert aviators 

They're the best I've ever seen! 

So, you see, the Beetle party 
Was quite a smart affair! 
Next time they're entertaining 
I hope you'll all be there ! 



[67] 



Sketches in Lyric 



THE CELIBATE 



A 



THISTLE searched the garden to choose a wife 
for mate, 
And having made a full survey he thus did contem- 
plate : 

"The bean is quite too stringy; the corn is over-tall; 
The pumpkin is too portly ; the pea is far too small ; 
The pepper is too saucy; the cabbage has no style; 
The cucumber is seedy ; the onion's breath is vile ; 
The beet is much too florid ; the carrot is too lean ; 
The turnip is too squatty ; the lettuce is too green. 

"Indeed, I'll wed with none of them! 'Twould mor- 
tify my pride !" 
And so he laid down by himself and shrivelled up 
and died. 



[68] 



Prose and Verse 



THE PROD* 

i ICK, tock, tick, tock,' 

The old clock said; 
"It's broad day light ! 

Better get out o' bed!" 
"Tick, tock, tick, tock," 

It said later on; 
"Better get to bed ! 

The night's 'most gone!" 



*An edition of this poem with musical accompaniment by the 
author is published by Clayton F. Summy Co., Chicago, through 
whose kind permission the lines are here printed. 

[69] 



Sketches in Lyric 



AN EASTER IDYL* 



I 



T'S just a little bonnet, 
With a single rose upon it, 
And the little face beneath it 
Is quite serene and still; 
But it took a week to buy it. 
And it takes an hour to tie it, 
And Heaven only knows how long 
'Twill take to pay the bill ! 



*Copyrighted by Life Publishing Co., and here used by their 
permission. 

[70] 



Prose and Verse 



TWO MICE* 



A 



MOUSE sat busily nibbling cheese. 
It was a Mister Mouse, if you please. 
In came a lady-mouse, trim and cute. 
All dolled up in a grey suede suit. 

Ho-ho ! 
The bit of cheese chanced to conceal 
A little hook of sharpened steel, 
And as he turned to meet her glance 
The hook quite spoiled his little pants! 

Oh! Oh! 
Her flight was most abrupt, 'tis true ; 
But then, her nice grey suit was new ! 
And cautious lady-mice all know 
Suede panties can't be made, — they grow! 

Just so. 



*An edition of this poem v/ith musical accompaniment by the 
author is published by Clayton F. Summy Co., Chicago, through 
whose kind permission the lines are here printed. 



[71] 



Sketches in Lyric 



TO THE HORSE I LEFT BEHIND ME 



I 



WANT you, Dolly Gray, so I do ! 
I want to roam the fragrant fields with you. 
I want to stand beside you *mid the hay ; 
I want to hear you stamp your foot and neigh ; 
I want to press your flank, — off and away ! 
Dolly Gray! 

I want you, Dolly Gray, that I do ! 
I want to skirt the singing stream with you. 
I want to feel the sun-shot air 
Press on my brow and through my hair 
And leave its gold-brown kisses there ; 
Dolly Gray! 

I want you, Dolly Gray, so I do ! 
And by the gods I soon shall have you, too ! 
To far Arcadia's mystic zone 
We two shall hasten — we alone! 
Here's to you, silver pearl! my own 
Dolly Gray! 



[72] 



Prose and Verse 



COMPENSATION 



I 



T'S a woolly old way we're trav'lin'; 
It's a gamble what's the end; 
But there's one thing worth the journey, 
And that one thing's a friend. 

It's a tough old game that's runnin'; 
It takes nerve to play it through ; 
But the jack-pot's worth the ante 
If it holds a friend or two. 



[73] 



Sketches in Lyric 



FOOLS 



A 



FOOL there was — yea, two there were, 
To whom life's road spread wide; 
They might have led the caravan; 
Instead, they turned aside. 

A fool there was — yea, there were two; 
Love's flagon stood hard-by; 
But being fools they left it there, 
The while their lips were dry. 

A fool there was — two fools were there, 
Who let the years grow grey; 
They might have strung them into hours 
Of joyous roundelay. 

A fool there was^ — and one fool more, — 
A he-fool and a she, 
Two faltering, fear-fettered fools, — 
A you-fool and a me. 



[74] 



Prose and Verse 



THE HANGING 

VV ERE you ever at a hanging, Auntie dear?" 
"Mercy, no !" 
"Well, there's surely going to be one now and here; 
Let's go! 
It's a wicked Chinese lady, dressed in red; 

Come and see! 
And she's going to be left hanging till she's dead!" 
"Dear me !" 

With a merry little twinkle in his eye. 

Hurrying, 
He led me down the hall to see her die; — 

Poor thing! 
Then climbing on a chair he hung her picture 

On the wall. 
And turned and looked at me and laughed and 
laughed ! 

That's all. 



[75] 



Sketches in Lyric 



THE CRICKET 

X LISTEN to the cricket; squeak, squeak, squawk; 
My, I would be lonesome if I couldn't hear him talk ! 
I sit there by the fire when I'm s'posed to be in bed, 
An' then all of a sudden I hear him scratch his head. 

I wonder where he comes from, an' where he hides 

away! 
I never hear him chirping or see him in the day ; 
But every night he's down there in the corner by the 

cat, 
An' if I make a bit of noise he shuts up — ^just like 

that! 

If I'm quite still he tells me a-many a funny thing ; 
He says the room's a big world, an' that I am its 

king ! — 
That the chair I'm in's a castle, an' the carpet is a 

moat, 
An' that the bed's an ocean and the pillow is a boat. 

He calls the broom a gen'ral, with straws for soldier- 
boys 

That march, march, march, without a bit of noise; 

An' that the lamp's a mountain where the sun's about 
to set. 

But if I crook my finger he shuts up — just like that ! 

[76] 



Prose and Verse 

'Nen, after while the fire goes out an* I jump into bed, 
An' pull the sheet and blanket up all around my head, 
An' he just talks me right to sleep— down in the cor- 
ner there ; 

An' when I wake next mornin' I can't find him any- 
where ! 



[77] 



Sketches in Lyric 



IF THE TREES COULD TALK 



I 



F the trees in the orchard could talk to me 
Of the things they know, oh, how wise I'd be ! 
I'd know why the leaves are so green today 
Instead of being all blue, or grey ; 
I'd know where the birds come from in the spring, 
And where they learn all the songs they sing ; 
Oh, I'd get them to tell me everything — 
If the trees could talk to me. 

I'd learn all the secrets of the wind, 
And where the blossoms their fragrance find ; — 
Why some are yellow and others white; 
And what the katy-did chirps at night ; 
And how in the world a dew-drop knows 
How to find the heart of the thirsty rose ; 
I'd know what the brook sings as it flows — 
If the trees could talk to me. 

I'd know why the song of the dove seems sad, 
And that of the robin is always glad ; 
Why babies though different look the same ; 
And where did everything get its name ; 
And what holds up the big, blue sky; 
And where do butterflies learn to fly; 
No fairy would be so wise as I — 
If the trees could talk to me. 

[78] 



Prose and Verse 

But this I know, that truth is true ; 
That I am I, and you are you; 
And I could not love you more than I do 
If the trees could talk to me. 



[79] 



Prose and Verse 



MAMMY'S LULLABY* 

vy H, de whip-poor-will is singin' in de twilight's 

spreadin' gloom, 
An' de fire-light flickers dimly t'roo de shadders in de 

room, 
An' my little dusky lambkin cuddles close to mammy's 

breast, 
'Cause it's tired now, an' sleepy, an' it's foun' a place 

to rest. 

Mammy's arms'll hoi' it closely, mammy's heart'U 

keep it warm. 
Mammy's love'll guide it safely t'roo de sunshine an' 

de storm; 
Mammy's lips'll heal its bruises, mammy's breast'U 

soothe its cry, 
Mammy's song'll lead it gently to de dream-Ian' in 

de sky. 

Like a little downy chicken 'neath de shelter o' de 

wing 
It'll nes'le down a-chirpin' when it hears its mammy 

sing; 
It's my cozy little cricket, it's my maple-sugar coon, 
It's my pretty sweet-potato, it's my yaller rose o' June. 

*An edition of this poem with musical accompaniment by the 
author is published by Clayton F. Summy Co., Chicago, through 
whose kind permission the lines are here printed. 

[80] 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



018 391 118 1 



